In Lex’s post today (22nd July) he asked ‘Who am I when all I have is me?’ 

In the 1970’s we had a major house move, survived the drought and Mr G survived burnout, having overworked for 25 years. I am re-reading my diary for 1977, and thought ‘How on earth did my family put up with me? Who was this woman?’ I seemed a pretty awful person, never stopping, seemingly always chasing something new.

In 1965, after an emergency visit to Westminster Hospital I was thrown out with a piece of paper ‘Mania’ and doctor’s instructions to literally put me to sleep for a week (I became Mogadon woman). I was then ‘diagnosed’ manic depressive, and treated as such. In 1977 I was being treated for depression and seeing a psychotherapist. Given my diary for that year I do not know what a psychiatrist would make of it – or what drove me to do all these things, which could be seen as ‘manic’ whilst being treated for depression. 

Mary Wednesday wrote a post about the guilt she felt for her family having to live with all her ups and downs. Answer, it’s not your fault and children are great survivors (and discussing things years later they knew what was going on.)

The older boys were at college and university, third approaching ‘O’ levels, girls at a Convent School and I was studying ‘A’ level Sociology and English. Why? I wanted to do a degree in Italian, I was treated by UCCA as a school leaver, they wanted three good ‘A’levels, I had three mediocre ones so I took two more. I did a lot of work on the farm, helping in the pack shed. I cannot remember if I was doing the secretarial work. Depression seemed uppermost because there is a sheet of paper about how to leave home and stop upsetting the family. I was on National Farmers’ Union Committees. I was doing Samaritan duties. We played squash a lot!

Mr G and I had a fabulous holiday in Brittany, cycling down the canal towpaths. The more I read through this lot, I was a ‘mixed up kid’ aged 42. I was certainly not manic, all the things I started on I achieved. The children were not deprived, they had school, friends, outside activities, encouraged with their hobbies, birthday parties, animals. I had an unpleasant couple of hours with my estranged daughter recently, who accused me of never listening, only interested in my journalistic ‘career’ (never had one, only for 6 months, no effect on family because Mr G worked near home, and was there morning and evening).

I’ve just walked round the roof garden, this glorious evening. Is it ‘All I have is me?’ Certainly I live in a huge city I do not know, with people I have never met in my life. Yet the thread through 1977 is ‘always tired’ (is one surprised). But why so unhappy? Nature, nurture, genes or real depression? Answers on a postcard please. 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member